


Theraflu and You

by ikeracity



Series: Rumor Mill verse [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Backstory, Early Relationship, M/M, Modern AU, Rumor Mill verse, Sickfic, Theraflu as a plot device, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Charles's proposal to Erik will never fail to make Charles blush. Erik summarizes it as, "He literally threw the ring at me," to which Charles will always protest, "There's more to the story than <i>that!</i>"</p><p>Rumor Mill verse backstory. How Charles and Erik got engaged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theraflu and You

**Author's Note:**

> Playing in the Rumor Mill verse again! This is for the lovely kageillusionz, who prompted "Wed Me" on Tumblr. ENJOY, DARLING.

Their fourth date is something of a disaster. 

Erik normally has the immune system of a particularly tough-skinned alligator, but on Tuesday evening, just when he’s supposed to be meeting Charles Xavier at a restaurant downtown, he’s lying collapsed in his bed, too sick to even move. His head is pounding, his throat hurts, and he’s shivering all over even though he has three blankets heaped up on top of him. Still, he tries to get up, because he really likes this guy, and he thinks that this relationship really might be going somewhere. He hasn’t lasted this long with any other person since he was sixteen and in love with Magda. He’s hoping that at the very least, this thing with Charles won’t end in fire and brimstone like his relationship with Magda had. 

Of course, if Charles thinks that Erik is standing him up tonight, the fire and brimstone could be a very real possibility. Or, more likely, a calm but disappointed “I’m sorry, Erik, but if I’m not worth your time, then I don’t think I want to continue this,” because he’s not sure if Charles can even _get_ fire-and-brimstone angry. 

He can actually imagine Charles breaking up with him using those very words. The idea is enough to galvanize him into action. He hauls himself out of bed, staggers to the closet, and grabs blindly at any clothes in reach. This restaurant isn’t supposed to be fancy, so as long as he gets _something_ on, he should be all right. He fumbles into a shirt and jeans and then drags himself over to the mirror to check how bad he looks. 

It’s awful. His eyes are red-rimmed, his nose is red from sneezing, and his expression is haggard. Charles is going to think he’s been hit by a bus. Charles, who is always dressed impeccably, who never has a hair out of place—Charles would be embarrassed to be seen with a man as disheveled as Erik is at the moment. No, he can’t possibly go like this. 

He spends five minutes trying to make himself look more presentable, but it’s a hopeless case. When he notices that his vision is blurring a little and he feels a bit lightheaded, he finally surrenders and hunts down his phone. 

Charles picks up on the first ring. He sounds worried. “Erik? Are you all right? You’re half an hour late.” 

Erik winces. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can make it today.” 

The worry in Charles’s voice instantly thickens. “You sound terrible. Are you sick? Are you all right?” 

“Yes, I’m—” He has to pause to cough violently into his sleeve. “—I can’t make it. I’m really sorry for making you wait.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charles says. His words muffle as he turns away for a moment, and Erik can hear him calling for the check. “Do you need anything? Medicine? Soup?” 

Of course he would offer. Charles has got to be the kindest, most empathetic person Erik has ever met. “No, I’m fine. Really. I’ve already taken some Tylenol—”

 _“Tylenol._ All right, I’ll be over in twenty minutes. I’m bringing Theraflu and soup.” 

“No, you don’t have to—”

“Nonsense. Don’t move a muscle.” 

The line goes dead. Erik pulls his phone down to stare at it for a long moment. Then he decides he’s too exhausted to figure out what just happened, so he trudges back to bed and falls face-first into the covers. 

Exactly twenty minutes later, someone knocks on his door. He moans into his pillow and resolves to ignore it. Then he remembers the phone call, remembers _Charles,_ and nearly breaks his leg untangling himself from the blankets and running for the door. 

Charles is waiting on the other side, a grocery bag in one hand, an overnight duffel in the other. Erik stares at the latter. 

“I hope I’m not being presumptuous,” Charles says, apologetic. “I just thought I could keep you some company tonight. Make sure you don't die in your sleep or something like that.” 

“I’m not _that_ sick,” Erik protests. 

Charles takes one glance at him and frowns, concern creasing his brow. “You look worse than I thought you would.” 

How utterly embarrassing. This is not the impression he wants to make on this man who might turn out to be his first long-term boyfriend in…ever. 

“Sorry,” Erik mutters, well-aware of how much he looks as if he’s a zombie apocalypse survivor—or just a zombie. “I didn’t think…I can clean up a bit if you want…”

Charles’s eyes widen. “That wasn’t criticism, Erik. I was just saying. Come along, you look as if you’re about to fall over.” 

He then proceeds to guide Erik to his own bedroom and push him down into the bed. Erik’s imagined this scenario a dozen times before, but he’s pretty sure it usually involves fewer clothes. Unfortunately, Charles remains fully-dressed as he putters around the room for a long while, picking up some of the engineering journals lying scattered on the carpet, tossing a discarded tie and sock into the hamper in the closet. Erik watches him listlessly. It’s a testament to how tired he is that he barely react every time Charles bends over and gives Erik a terrific view of his ass. He decides to store those images away for later, when he’s not feeling so much like dying. 

Charles disappears for a moment and returns with two glasses of cool water, a packet of Theraflu, and a spoon. Ripping open the packet, he stirs in the powder and waits for it to dissolve completely before settling himself on the edge of the bed. “Can you sit up?”

“Don’t make me,” Erik groans, burying his face into his pillow.

Charles laughs. “How did I guess that you’d be cranky when sick? That’s okay, I found a straw in the kitchen.” 

Erik cracks one eye open and then opens his mouth to allow Charles to feed in the thin straw. He takes one sip and grimaces. “Are you sure you didn’t pour in rat poison by mistake?”

“Nope. It’s Theraflu through and through. Drink it all.” 

Erik drinks half and then spits out the straw. Charles stubbornly jabs it back in between his lips and says, “I said, drink it _all.”_

“But it tastes like the bottom of someone’s shoe,” Erik complains. 

“I’m not even going to ask how you know what someone’s shoe tastes like,” Charles sighs. “But drink it anyway.” 

He lays his palm on Erik’s forehead and frowns at the heat he finds there. After a moment, he pushes Erik’s hair back from his eyes, once, then twice. Then he begins to slowly card his hand through Erik’s hair, and the touch is enough to distract Erik from the gag-worthy taste of Theraflu. He gulps down the rest of the foul concoction and then flops back into his pillow, swallowing a few times to try to rid his mouth of that acrid taste. 

“Here,” Charles says, pushing the straw into his mouth again. He almost protests before he realizes that Charles is offering him the second glass of water, and then he drinks eagerly, washing the flavor of Theraflu into distant memory. 

“I know exactly how Theraflu tastes,” Charles says with a grin. “Always keep more water on hand after taking it.” 

“You’re an angel,” Erik moans as he falls back against the mountain of blankets. 

Charles smiles at him, his expression hesitant and thoughtful for a long moment. Then he tugs at Erik’s arm and says, “Let’s get you underneath these covers, hmm? They’ll do you more good if you’re not lying on top of them.” 

Charles tucks him in as securely as Mama used to, making completely sure he’s comfortable before retreating. “Where are you going?” Erik croaks as Charles heads for the door. He can’t help the tiny thread of panic that edges his voice. 

“To grab some food,” Charles replies. “I didn’t get to eat anything at the restaurant earlier, and I’m famished. I hope you don’t mind me raiding your refrigerator?”

“Help yourself.” Then Erik remembers the state of his refrigerator. “There are takeout menus in the leftmost drawer!” he shouts hoarsely. 

Down the hall, Charles laughs. “Got it.” A moment later, he calls incredulously, “Erik, what on earth do you eat on a regular basis? You’ve got nothing in your fridge but a jar of peanut butter and some bananas!” 

“That’s why the menus are there!” Erik retorts, drawing another laugh from Charles. There’s some prolonged bustling around in the kitchen before he hears Charles’s voice again, saying, “Hello? Yes, hi, I’d like to order in…” 

He must have fallen asleep at some point because the next time he opens his eyes, Charles is dozing in a chair pulled up to his bedside, a mostly-eaten carton of lo mein noodles on the nightstand. He’d dragged in one of the chairs from the next-door study and is curled up in it like a kitten, his jacket pulled loosely over his shoulders, his knees drawn up almost to his chest. This is the first time Erik has ever seen him asleep. They’ve had sex only once—glorious, mind-blowing sex that Erik thinks will be seared into his mind forever—and that time, Charles had gotten up afterwards and said ruefully that he needed to get up early for a lab, so he couldn’t stay. Erik had walked him down to get a cab and then headed back to his bed alone. 

Now, he takes the time to fully savor the sight of Charles loose-limbed and discomposed in slumber. He is always so perfectly poised on their dates, but occasionally, Erik sees flashes of a more chaotic nature underneath. Charles’s car, for example, is a mess, as is his office at Columbia. And now, Erik sees a little bit of that carelessness in the way Charles sleeps, curled tightly in on himself but with one arm hanging over the edge of the chair, his mouth half-open, his hair mussed. He is adorable. Erik never calls _anything_ ‘adorable,’ but there is no other word for Charles snoring lightly in his armchair. 

He realizes suddenly that no one has ever cared for him when he was sick since his mother when he was a boy. No one has ever taken the time to come over and force-feed him medicine and put him to bed and then stay to make sure he’s all right. Granted, he hasn’t had very many friends in his adulthood, let alone friends who would be willing to spend the night tending to him. Even when he’d caught the flu for two weeks when he’d still been dating Magda, she’d come over with blankets and chicken noodle soup only twice before leaving him to his own devices, mostly because she’d been too busy studying for the SAT to help. But here is Charles, a man he’s known for barely five weeks, fussing over him like a mother hen, making sure he’s all right, getting genuinely _concerned_ for Erik, all before their fourth date. 

Erik thinks a bit stupidly that he might be in love. 

It is between that thought and the next that Charles stirs. He wakes up slowly, twitching around a bit before he finally opens his eyes and blinks blearily. The moment he realizes where he is, he bolts upright and looks immediately at the bed. “Erik! You’re awake!” He tosses off his jacket and comes over to feel out Erik’s forehead. His touch is cool against Erik’s burning skin. “You’ve still got a fever. How do you feel?”

His mouth tastes like cotton balls, and the pounding in his head is getting worse. Still, he mumbles, “Fine,” and is rewarded by Charles’s flat, disbelieving stare. 

“Don’t lie to me, Erik. Are you hot? Cold?”

“Cold,” he mutters, even though he’s nestled under three blankets and a comforter, and he can feel himself sweating. 

“Well, that’s only to be expected,” Charles says. “The fever causes your hypothalamus to adjust the normal set-point of your body temperature, pushing it higher than normal. Your current temperature, while it may normally feel comfortable, now feels too cold. All a matter of endogenous pyrogens, you see, and—and I’m boring you, aren’t I? I’m sorry about that. Let’s get you better covered up.” 

“Not boring me,” Erik says through his shivering. “I like it when you talk science.” 

Charles blushes. It’s a very pretty blush. “Thank you. You’re one of the few.” 

He pulls the blankets up to Erik’s chin, and as he moves to draw away, Erik reaches up to catch his wrist. “You have pretty eyes,” he says, his words a bit slurred. “Very pretty. Like…like…” His mind fails him. “…something really blue.” 

Charles laughs, even as his blush deepens. “That’s very kind of you, Erik. I see that the Theraflu is kicking in. I won’t hold you accountable for anything you say for the next couple of hours.” 

“Mmmph,” Erik mumbles. His head feels like it’s cracking apart at the seams. “Sorry about our date. Sorry I couldn’t go.” 

“Don’t be absurd,” Charles huffs. “Apologizing for being sick. Honestly, Erik, I’ve been stood up before, and—Are you trying to sit up? Don’t do that.”

Erik struggles anyway. “Who stood you up?” he growls. “I’ll find them and—and beat the shit out of them—”

Charles’s face contorts. It’s obvious he’s trying hard to keep from bursting out into laughter. “You are a darling for wanting to protect my honor, really, but I doubt you could beat the stuffing out of a pillow right now, so lie back down before you hurt yourself.” 

His head feels fuzzy, and his limbs are not responding quite correctly, so Erik acquiesces. “I’ll beat the shit out of them later,” he says grumpily. 

“You do that.” There is something achingly fond in Charles’s voice. He pushes his fingers through Erik’s hair again, and Erik leans into the touch, like a dog leaning toward a good rub. He closes his eyes as Charles continues to stroke him, and the combination of the sensation and the medicine sinks him into a drowsy half-sleep. 

“You know,” Charles says softly, “I really like you, Erik.”

“Mmm,” Erik answers, his voice stifled in his pillow. “I like you more.” 

Charles laughs. He has a beautiful laugh. Erik wishes his hearing wasn’t so muffled so he could listen to it properly. “I very much doubt that.” His hand trails from Erik’s hair down to his cheek, then his jaw. Charles’s thumb brushes over his lips, his every touch gentle. “When you’re feeling a little better,” he says, “we’ll sit you up and get some food into you, all right? I brought chicken soup and tea.” 

“Don’t want to sit up.” 

“Don’t be a baby.” Charles sounds amused though. “If you’re really feeling that badly, I’ll let you drink the soup through a straw, okay?”

A sudden thought strikes him. “I have work.” He manages to kick off the edge of the comforter. “I have to get up.” 

Charles puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him firmly back down. “Don’t worry about it. I took the liberty of calling in from your phone while you were asleep. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Perfect. How is he so perfect? Erik groans. “Will you just marry me and be done with it?”

He is dimly aware of Charles’s fingers stilling on his face. There is a very long silence in which Erik might have drifted off for a while. When he cracks his eyes back open, Charles is smiling a bit shyly down at him. “Ask me again when you’re not drugged up,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss Erik’s sweaty forehead. 

Erik closes his eyes and promises that he will.

*

Erik doesn’t remember the incident until Charles tells him about it a couple of years later. He mentions it in passing, and after the whole story is out, they both share a laugh.

“The perils of Theraflu,” Charles says. 

“I’m never, ever getting sick again,” Erik vows in return. 

And that’s all they ever say of it, until four years after when Erik comes home to find Charles sprawled on the couch, moaning, halfway into his tuxedo, his normally-bright blue eyes clouded with fever. 

“Shit,” he says as he catches sight of Charles. He leans down to touch Charles’s face and nearly recoils. “You’re burning up.” 

“You came back,” Charles rasps. “No, you shouldn’t have. I’m supposed to meet you at the restaurant.” 

“Yeah, I know, I waited. I called, but you didn’t pick up, so I got worried.” Erik drops his keys onto the table and strips off his tie. “And for good reason, too. How long have you been lying here?”

“…An hour?”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Erik demands, dropping to his knees beside the couch. “You should’ve called me.” 

“We need to be at the restaurant,” Charles mumbles, his face flushed. “I made reservations.” 

Erik scowls. “Who cares about the reservations? You’re not in any shape to go anywhere. Stay right here, I’m going to get you some water and medicine.” 

He runs to the kitchen, grabs a glass, fills it in the sink, and then goes to riffle through the bathroom cabinet for medicine. It turns out that all they have is Theraflu, so he tears open a packet, upends its contents into the water, and swirls it around until it’s mostly dissolved. 

When he gets back, Charles is sitting up and trying to tie his bow tie. 

Erik hurries over and sets the water down on the coffee table. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” 

“I’m okay,” Charles pants, his eyes vague as they catch Erik’s. “Really. We need to go.” 

“We don’t need to go anywhere,” Erik says severely. “Here, drink this. I’m going to get you some more water because I remember what Theraflu tastes like—”

Charles grabs his arm as he tries to leave. “No, I’m fine.” He reaches out, picks up the water-Theraflu mixture, and tosses it back with barely a grimace. Erik has never admired anyone’s grit more than he does Charles’s at that moment. “Let’s go.” 

Erik manhandles him back down onto the couch. “You’re staying right there, and you’re going to rest. If you try to even sit up, I’ll tie you down, I swear.” 

“We _can’t_ miss this,” Charles insists, and Erik is surprised to see him growing genuinely upset. Charles’s breath shortens, and his eyes grow a bit glassy and is he—are those _tears_ in his eyes? 

“Charles?” Erik asks, alarmed now. “What’s wrong?”

Charles raises his arm to bury his face in the crook of his elbow. “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined everything.” 

“You’ve—what? What are you talking about?”

“I had _plans,_ ” Charles moans, his face obscured by his arm. “I was going to—it was going to be _perfect.”_

“What was?”

“The thing. The _thing!”_

Erik touches Charles’s arm and notes the heat fairly radiating off his skin. “Has the Theraflu gotten to you already? You’re not making any sense.” 

Charles whimpers and rolls to turn his back to Erik, hiding his face into the couch. Worried, Erik sits down on the edge of the cushion and pulls Charles’s shoulder until he can see part of his expression, which is red with fever and distinctly miserable. 

“Hey,” he says softly, “it’s all right. We’ll just have dinner when you’re feeling better, all right?” 

“No, it’s not all right,” Charles says, his voice desolate. “It’s not all right.” 

“I know how much you like our formal nights,” Erik says, drawing soothing circles between Charles’s shoulder blades, “but we can just have one next week. I’ll even let you buy us some of that outrageously-expensive wine that you won’t ever let me help pay for.” 

“It won’t be the same,” Charles says stubbornly. 

Erik frowns. “Yeah, it will. We’ll get reservations, we’ll take off from work early, we can—”

“It won’t be the _same!”_ Charles shouts. His voice breaks on the last word, and he dissolves into a coughing fit. Erik is torn between bewilderment at Charles’s vehemence and concern at his condition. He settles for holding Charles by his shoulders as he hacks up his lungs, and when the episode finally ends, he says gently, “What’s wrong, _Liebling?”_

Charles is silent for a long moment. Then he struggles up, grabs his suit jacket from where it’s been slung across the back of the couch, digs through the right pocket, and then flings something in Erik’s direction. Startled, Erik catches it reflexively and then stares. 

It’s a box. A felt box, small enough to fit in his palm, and— _oh._

He doesn’t even open it before he turns wide eyes on Charles. “Is this…?”

“Yes,” Charles answers unhappily. 

Erik turns the small, black box over in his hand, silver hinges gleaming on one side. After a breath of hesitation, he eases it open and is met by the sight of a simple golden wedding band sitting against a white silk cloth. For a long couple of minutes, he can do nothing but stare. 

Apparently, his silence is a couple of minutes too long. Charles’s expression crumples. “You don’t like it. Or you don’t want to say yes. Oh my god, I can’t do this. Can you wait until after I’m better to reject me? I really can’t do this right now.” He buries his face in his hands, and this time, the reddening across his cheeks is from more than the fever. “I can’t believe I showed you that. I hate Theraflu.” 

“Stop, stop,” Erik says, his eyes riveted on the ring. “It’s all right.” 

“It’s _not_ all right! I had a—a speech and everything, and the restaurant promised to bring champagne and—” 

Charles is starting to get really worked up, his hands trembling a bit in agitation. Erik tears his gaze away from the box and sets it aside with a tremendous effort. He clasps Charles’s shaking hands in his own and says, “It’s fine, Charles, calm down. It’s fine.” 

“Stop saying that!” Charles yanks his hands free and buries his face into them again. “I really thought—I really meant to—” He takes a deep, rattling breath. “I’m so sorry. This was too soon, wasn’t it? Can you just…forget you ever saw this?” 

He reaches over to take the ring off the table, and Erik snatches it back out of reach. “Forget I ever saw this? Why the hell would I ever do that?”

Charles stares at him dumbly. “To spare us both the humiliation?”

“Of what?” Erik asks. “Of me saying yes?” He picks the ring out of the box and slides it onto his finger. “Perfect fit. How did you get that?”

Charles gapes at his hand. “I’m…observant,” he says distractedly. He reaches out and touches the ring, as if trying to convince himself that it’s real. “This isn’t a Theraflu hallucination, is it?”

Erik laughs. “I don’t know. Does Theraflu cause hallucinations?”

“Check out the box,” Charles says. “Check out the warning labels.” 

“I’m not checking anything out but you,” Erik says, leaning forward to kiss him hard. Charles jerks away instantly, gasping, “I’m going to get you _sick!”_ but Erik growls, “Then we’ll be sick fiancés together,” and clambers onto the couch next to him. Charles freezes underneath him, his eyes very wide. 

“Fiancés?” he echoes, wonder and awe laid into the word. 

“You _are_ asking me to marry you, aren’t you?” Erik asks, pinning Charles down with his weight. “This isn’t a friendship ring?”

“Why on earth would it be—yes, I’m asking.” Charles gazes intently up at him, his eyes a bit unfocused from the medicine and the fever, but still endearingly earnest. “Are you…saying yes?”

“What else could I say?” Erik huffs, pressing their mouths together. Charles tastes hot and stale, but Erik is suddenly too elated to care. He has a ring on his finger. _He has a ring on his finger._ Charles is asking Erik to marry him. _Erik,_ who is antisocial, occasionally snappy, cantankerous, and generally Charles’s exact opposite.

“You really want to marry me?” he breathes, rearing back so he can look at his hand. _“Me?”_

Charles smiles. It’s just a bit loopy from the medication. Apparently the panic is gone, replaced by a giddiness that chases away some of the cloudiness to Charles’s eyes. “Yes, you, my boyfriend of six years, you, Erik.” 

_“Me?”_ Erik repeats, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “I mean, you’re beautiful and perfect and friendly and nice. I know I’m not the best boyfriend, and I don’t think I’d be the best husband. I don’t know if you’d—”

“Will you just marry me and be done with it?” Charles demands. 

Those words sound familiar. It takes a long moment for Erik to connect them with a memory, and when he does, his eyes widen. “Isn’t that…wasn’t that what I said…”

“Six years ago when you cancelled on our fourth date because you had a fever of 102,” Charles confirms, pausing to cough into his sleeve. “And now I’m returning the favor. Sort of. Except for real.” 

For real. Erik breaks into a broad smile. “If you’re sure, then I am.” 

“Of _course_ I’m—mmmph.” 

Erik cuts him off with another kiss, and oh, he’ll probably have a fever of his own in the morning, but that’s a price he’s willing to pay because at the moment, he wants nothing more than to be touching Charles, to wrap him up and pepper him with kisses and make him _his_ in every way possible. 

“Married,” he whispers against Charles’s cheek. “Will I have to say yes to you again when you’re not drugged up?” 

“I’ll probably forget this,” Charles says a bit drowsily, the adrenaline of the moment fading into the exhaustion of the flu. “So yes.” 

“Excellent.” So he gets to see Charles’s reaction twice. Excellent. 

“I have to call Mama,” he says, his mind racing ahead at light-speed. “She’ll be ecstatic. And my father will want to talk to you, to make sure you’re—Charles?”

It appears that his fiancé has dropped off entirely beneath him, asleep in a bare instant. Erik can’t help but smile down at him. Charles still looks the same sleeping now as he had six years back: slightly disheveled, mouth open, head full of messy hair lolling to one side. Erik eases off of him and pulls the ring off his finger. Fitting it carefully back into the case, he slides the box back into the right pocket of Charles’s suit jacket. 

He bends down to kiss Charles’s forehead and whispers fondly, “Just ask me again when you’re not all drugged up, all right?”

*

In the morning, Charles stumbles into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed but thankfully a great deal more lucid than he’d been the night before. It seems like the fever has broken.

“Did I miss dinner?” is the first thing out of his mouth. 

Ignoring the leap of his heart, Erik calmly sips his coffee and doesn’t move from his seat at the kitchen table. He flips a page in the newspaper and answers, “Yeah, you did.” 

“Shit,” Charles moans, looking frustrated and annoyed and mortified all at once. “Did you—did you wait long?”

“Not long.” 

“Good. I, ah…I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.” 

“Didn’t even call,” Erik remarks coolly. 

“Sorry about that, too,” Charles mumbles. Erik notes that he has his suit jacket in his hand, as if he’d been afraid of leaving it alone for even one minute. He waits for Charles to pull the ring out, waits for him to explain everything and to ask, but Charles only bites his lip, shifts from foot to foot for a long minute, and then turns to leave. 

“Wait!” Erik calls, setting down his coffee mug. He pushes the newspaper away and crosses his arms expectantly. “Aren’t you going to tell me something?”

Charles blinks. “Tell you what?”

“Weren’t you going to tell me something at dinner last night?” Erik prods. 

Panic flashes across Charles’s face, and Erik has to press his lips together hard to keep from laughing. “What? Last night? No, that was—no, it was nothing. How did you…?”

“Just ask me, Charles,” Erik cuts in. 

“Ask you what?” Charles says. He has a horrible poker face. Absolutely awful. Erik, who has tried to show Charles how to play proper poker more than once, is a bit ashamed at his teaching skills. 

“The ring’s in your right pocket, in case you forgot,” Erik says helpfully. 

Charles stares at him. For a second, he looks like he’s about to bolt out the door in sheer shock and terror. “How—how did…” he stammers. 

Erik can’t help it. Charles just looks so speechless that Erik bursts into snickers, wishing he’d brought a camera so he could capture that baffled expression on Charles’s face. 

“You asked me last night,” he explains, grinning widely. “Gave me the ring and everything. I just gave it back because I thought you might want to ask me when you weren’t delirious.” 

Realization and embarrassment color Charles’s cheeks pink. “Oh. I did? I don’t remember that.” His eyes fly wide open. “And you—what did you say?”

Erik smirks. “Ask me again and see for yourself.” 

“Oh. Ah—okay, one second.” Charles fumbles for his pocket and pulls out the box. Erik’s breath catches at the mere sight of it. Charles inhales deeply, walks across the stretch of the kitchen, and drops nervously to one knee by the table. Then he just continues to kneel there for a long minute, staring blankly up at Erik. 

“Damn it,” he says finally, flustered, “I had this planned out in the restaurant. With champagne and everything.”

“You told me.” 

“What _didn’t_ I say last night?” Charles grumbles, his cheeks flushed. He thinks for a moment. “Okay, so how much of the speech did you get?” 

“What speech?”

“Well, how did I ask you if I didn’t give you the speech?” Charles demands, clearly disgruntled. “I practiced a whole speech. I rehearsed it in front of the mirror. It had a lot of metaphors and—and anecdotes. Special anecdotes.” 

Erik thinks back. “You didn’t say much of anything really. You just threw the ring at me.” 

“I did _what?”_

“You flung the box at me last night. Didn’t even say a word.” 

Charles rocks back on his haunches, dumbfounded. “I did _what?”_

Erik leans forward and presses the back of his hand against Charles’s forehead. “Are you still running a fever? Is that Theraflu still in your system?”

Charles bats his hand away impatiently. “I can’t believe I didn’t give you my speech. I worked _hard_ on that thing, damn it. And then I just— _hurled_ this at you? What did you even say?”

“What else?” Erik replies, grinning. “I said yes.” 

“You said—” For a handful of seconds, Charles is perfectly still, not even blinking, not even breathing. Then a slow, hopeful smile begins at the corners of his lips, and he breathes, “You said _yes?”_

“You’re unusually slow today,” Erik remarks, reaching out to pluck the box from Charles’s hand. He pops it open, slides the ring onto his finger, and holds it up for Charles to see. “Is that yes enough for you?”

Charles nearly tackles him out of the chair.

*

Later, when they’re lying naked and sated on the kitchen floor, Charles rolls over onto Erik’s chest and picks up his left hand to admire the ring again. “We’re going to get married,” he says happily. “We’re getting married.”

“Yes, we are.” Erik hasn’t really grasped the idea yet. He’s sure it’ll hit him sooner or later and then he’ll be hyperventilating with his head between his knees. But for now, he’s content to lie there on the cold tile with Charles’s body warming his front and side. 

“It’s really too bad you keep insisting you don’t have any friends at work,” Charles says. “I would really like you to have some guests.” 

“I have my mother and father.” 

“Guests who _aren’t_ your relatives,” Charles amends. “Friends, I mean.” 

Erik shrugs. “I don’t need friends. I have you.” 

Charles beams and kisses him quickly. “You’re lovely. I love you.” 

Those words that used to come with difficulty in those early months of their relationship are as natural as breathing now. “Love you, too.” 

Charles snuggles up and lays his head on Erik’s chest. He likes listening to the steady thump of Erik’s heartbeat, he told Erik once. “By the way, you know how you’re always talking about how you hate your job?”

“I work with idiots,” Erik grumbles. “How could I not hate my job?”

“Well, I heard there’s a job fair coming up. For engineers, sciences, maths, and the like. Stark Industries is hiring this year.” 

“Yeah? I might look into it. Stark’s a top-tier business.” 

“Mm. Maybe you’ll like it better there. And your salary ought to be higher, too.” Charles smiles wickedly. “You’re going to need it; I expect the biggest, grandest wedding in the Northern Hemisphere.” 

Erik shoots him an anxious glance. “Do you…do you really want a big wedding?”

Charles takes one look at his face and laughs. “No, love. I want whatever you want. We can invite close friends—well, my close friends anyway. Or we can have a family-only ceremony. We can even elope, if you want, but I’d really prefer to have my parents there. Less headache that way.” 

“Anything you want,” Erik says solemnly. And then he feels his throat tickle and has to turn his face away as he breaks into a coughing fit. 

“Oh dear,” Charles says worriedly as he touches Erik’s face. “You’re getting a little hot. I’ve gotten you sick. I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Erik says tightly as he fights off the urge to cough again, his eyes watering a bit at the effort. “I’m fine.” 

Charles smiles ruefully and pushes himself up off Erik’s chest. “I’ll get the Theraflu ready.”

*

Charles never really gets over the proposal. Even years afterwards, he’ll still blush at the thought of it.

“I really wanted to give you a perfect night,” he grouses when Erik brings it up one night while they’re lying on their bellies in front of the fireplace, a chessboard between them. 

“At least you gave me a hilarious story to tell whenever someone asks me about how you popped the question,” Erik replies, capturing a white pawn. “Raven and the others couldn’t stop laughing when I told them yesterday.” 

Charles’s eyes brighten at that. “I’m glad you’re getting along with them. They seem like pleasant people.”

“You met them _once_ last month at a party, not in the office,” Erik grumbles. “You don’t have to work with them every day.” 

Charles starts to move his bishop, then thinks better of it. Setting the piece back down, he picks up his rook and moves it to threaten Erik’s knight. “But admit it: your job’s gotten easier once they’ve gotten to know you a bit.” 

“I’ll admit to no such thing,” Erik sniffs. He shifts his knight out of danger. “I still expect them to do work the way I want it. Nothing’s changed.” 

Erik’s phone chimes. Charles reaches for it, since it’s closer to his side. His eyebrows arch up, and he tilts the screen so Erik can see. “It’s from Raven. Evidently, we’ve inspired a catchphrase. ‘I’ll get the Theraflu.’” 

Erik frowns. “Meaning what?”

Charles scrolls down the message. “She doesn’t say. What do you think it means?”

“Proposal?” Erik guesses. “Wedding?”

“Love? Sex?” Charles’s grin turns lascivious. He slides his rook down the board. “Check. Mate in two.” 

“What—” Erik looks down, considers the options, and finds that it’s true. “Rematch.” 

“Nope.” Charles hops up onto his feet. “Unless it’s strip chess. In which case, I’ll get the Theraflu.” 

Erik’s eyes narrow. “Is that going to be a thing now?”

Charles sashays toward their bedroom, hips swinging. “Are you joining me or not?” 

Six years of dating and over a year of marriage, and Erik still can’t resist him. With a growl, he tips his king, jumps to his feet, and rushes at Charles, who yelps and turns tail to run for the bedroom. Halfway into the room, he takes a flying leap for the bed, Erik on his heels. They end up tangled in the blankets and in themselves, Erik nipping at every inch of Charles’s bare skin, Charles laughing helplessly as he says, “I’ll get the Theraflu! Do you want the Theraflu? I’ve got the Theraflu!” 

“You,” Erik mutters, working Charles’s shirt open, “are probably certifiably insane.” 

“Probably,” Charles agrees, wrapping his arms around Erik’s neck. “But don’t worry, darling. I’ll only get the Theraflu for you.” 

Erik huffs. “Stop saying that.” 

“Theraflu. _Theraflu_. In retrospect, Theraflu has been very important in our relationship, Erik,” Charles reasons. He’s beginning to slip into that professor voice of his, laden with authority and genuine interest. “If I hadn’t come to your flat the first time you were sick, we might never have gotten to know each other like we did. And if I hadn’t taken that Theraflu when _I_ was sick, I might have—”

Erik kisses him. He’s found that it’s one of the only reliable ways of shutting Charles up, and Charles really doesn’t mind. He kisses Erik back just as fervently, hooking his leg around Erik’s hip and rolling them over further into the bed, and then there’s no more talk of Theraflu or of anything for a long while.

*

The next day at work, Erik is sitting in the conference room when his phone buzzes. He glances at Hank, who is nervously presenting his work, shoving his glasses up his nose every couple of seconds as he speaks. Normally, Erik never checks his phone during conferences, but this one is from Charles, and he can’t help it: he unlocks his phone and finds a picture of a box of Theraflu, along with ‘do you feel the temperature rise every time I walk into the room or do you just have a fever :D – either way I’m off at 4 so come home early – I’ll get the Theraflu.’

Erik closes his eyes briefly, torn between rolling his eyes and smiling. Seven years later and Charles has not been broken of his god-awful one-liners. 

As Hank wraps up his presentation and goes to sit back down, Erik texts back, ‘make it 4:30. i’ll make dinner.’ 

“And you’re always yelling at _us_ for being on our phones,” Alex says loudly, giving Erik a pointed look. 

Ignoring him, Erik hits send and shoves his phone into his pocket. “Who’s next?”

“Who was that?” Raven asks instead, grinning. 

“No one,” Erik says brusquely. “Sean, give me the quarterly reports.” 

But the tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth tells them all they need to know.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Theraflu and You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212731) by [DuendeVerde4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuendeVerde4/pseuds/DuendeVerde4)




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